Glitter, Zhao Yunlan is discovering, is impossible to get rid of. He hadn't even meant to get it on his jacket; he'd been scraping by one of the craft tables to go get himself a plate of finger foods, a jar had tipped over, and now he sparkles. Lots. In iridescent green. Despite his best efforts.

At least he has chocolate to console him over the prospect of having to get his jacket dry-cleaned. Can he create a borderline against glitter? Can he create a borderline against glitter and then throw his jacket through--

-- it's something to try later, he supposes, and dismisses the technical speculation in favor of scanning the room. It's the usual cluster of people old and new; there's a hulking dark shadow he hadn't seen around before, and a few more kids, and someone at the nearest table apparently engrossed in classical ink painting.

There are many things that Yunlan has discovered about himself so far. He can use a gun. He doesn't like leaving people behind in dangerous situations. He's got good alcohol tolerance, a head for numbers, optional social graces, and a left knee that predicts weather changes four hours in advance.

He's also a nosy bastard with no respect for other people's privacy, and it is that deeply rooted trait that sends him sparkling towards the ink painter's table. The portrait he's rendered is of someone in old-fashioned clothes and hairstyle, hand filled with flames. It could've come right out of a wuxia drama, which, Zhao Yunlan's got to admit, is not what he'd expected.

"Not bad," he answers the murmured criticism, and flashes the guy a grin. "I like his beard."